


Good

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-05
Updated: 2005-10-05
Packaged: 2018-10-27 13:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10809951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Harry and Ron come home after a night of drinking. Harry-Ron; established relationship; PWP.





	Good

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

The first sound was the giggling, the second the crash of a chair, the third the rustle of clothes, and the fourth - and most important - the sound of springs in a bed.

Ron was drunk, and if Ron was drunk, then Harry was surely passed drunk and into the realm of plastered beyond coherency. His fingers fumbled with the infuriatingly tiny buttons on Harry's shirt, and Harry did a hip roll that made concentrating on such trivial tasks so impossible that Ron ripped the cloth.

"Oops," Ron said without any guilt or conviction in his voice. Harry didn't say anything at all as he was too busy making a mouth-shaped mark on Ron's collarbone.

Ron nosed Harry's mussed, soft hair, breathed it in - wind, soap, cigarette smoke - before sliding his fingers into it and tugging, gently. Harry's head obliged, lips breaking from Ron's skin, eyes meeting his. Mouth met mouth, wet, sloppy, consuming, and Ron thought Harry tasted like fire and butterbeer. Good.

Harry's teeth scraped Ron's tongue hard, once, twice, and then he sucked; Ron moaned thickly, pulling back to gasp in a sharp snatch of air.

"Fucking hell."

"I know."

"You're--"

Good. Long thumbs brushed down goose-pimpled sides, caught, briefly, in belt loops, teasingly tugging hard enough to make Harry moan without any reason or sense. A bit further, and warm palms followed the curve of ever warmer, denim-covered thighs, from the outside, in.

Harry's legs fell open, clumsily and easily, hips already arching for contact or pressure or anything at all. Their voices mingled, reverberated, the edges of their sight fuzzy and dark, the only thing not muffled were the touches; stinging red lines from nails, pleasurable presses of fingertips, the dizzying weight of one another. Ron could feel his heart thudding somewhere in his throat, his dick twitching against the uncomfortable tight denim of his own jeans, and he didn't hesitate a moment to slap Harry's hands away.

"I'll do it," he mumbled, popping the button and parting the metal zipper.

"Oka--" The word cut itself off, strangled, as Ron's hand slid into the front of his jeans, causing his hips to buck of their own volition, and his eyes to squeeze closed.

"Oh..."

"You're not wearing..."

Harry laughed then, a tipsy, hoarse giggle. "No, I'm... no."

Ron growled, throaty and loud, hands sliding up again, fingers curling around the waistband of Harry's jeans and pulling. There was a yelp, and more drunken snickers stifled only when Ron's mouth was back on Harry's and his foot was absently kicking Harry's jeans to the floor.

"Want to fuck, then?" Ron asked against Harry's lips.

"You have to ask?"

Ron grinned, nose bumping Harry's by way of a nuzzle, feeling the delicious, burning tingle of fingers pushing his shirt up at the sides, to his shoulders. "'S the polite thing to do, I thought."

"Well, stop thinking, then," Harry ordered, roughly yanking the shirt up over Ron's head before rocking forcefully to his left; Ron rolled over to his back with a thick "oof," and Harry bent his leg up, shifting once more to straddle him. His fingers deftly went about undoing the fastenings of Ron's pants.

Ron decided Harry was right about the whole thinking thing.

"Should take after me," Harry suggested a moment later, the pants disposed of, the heel of his palm rolling over the tented cotton of Ron's boxers; every so often, his hand would edge a little more left, a finger would slip under the cloth, Ron would whimper and claw the sheets a little.

"Harry..."

Again, Harry didn't answer, just smiled shyly.

Too late for that.

"Please."

"Please, what?" Harry asked with an innocence that sounded annoyingly genuine, even as he pulled down the elastic waistband of Ron's shorts a little, fingertips grazing coarse, dark red hair.

"Just... hell. Please."

Harry's eyes flicked up, the smile still there. "Don't ask."

"Okay."

Good. Elastic slipped over freckled, narrow hips, and calloused fingers spread over Ron's belly, just below the navel, while lips pressed to the pulse in Ron's neck again, softly, fleeting.

"Now," Harry said.

Ron had not even gotten the question from his lips before the will to ask it died away, biting down on his lip as he watched Harry quickly lick his palm and lean forward. He shuddered as the semi-wet warmth closed around him, and Harry sucked in a breath to steady himself.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." the words tumbled from Ron's mouth, came back to him from Harry's, and the spark exploded into a full-fledged fire by the simple stroke of Harry's thumb over the head.

"Can't--ohh." The colors bled, the image became grainy, and when Harry was suddenly gone, all Ron wanted was for him to come back, fucking hell, just come back. There was a murmur, the hand on his thigh shook, and then there was the green of Harry's eyes, the black of his hair, the tense, lean muscle of his arms and stomach. No longer thigh to thigh, Harry's legs framed Ron's hips, his hands on Ron's shoulders.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Harry sank down, and Ron was drowning.

Again, Ron's hips tried to move of their own accord, but the urge was fought back, eyes intent on Harry's face, waiting. And waiting.

The hair was brushed back from Harry's forehead. Ron couldn't breathe, but it didn't matter. He'd wait.

"'Arry?"

Just a moment more and Harry nodded, shifted ever-so-slightly, and the feeling exploded across his face. He whimpered, that sharp ache of mingled pain and pleasure in his voice.

"Harry."

Another shaky breath. "Ron." The tone was fearless. The room seemed to be getting dimmer, or perhaps it was his imagination. When Harry pulled up, Ron's body answered immediately, hips rocking gently into the away movement, and rising up for the return. White flared behind his eyelids, his fingers clung to Harry's hips, pressing into the cut where hip meets leg.

The rhythm began, slow, methodic, careful; each movement, each breath, each cry, a little stronger than the last. Heat seemed to radiate from Harry's skin, from his inside, the push and pull doubling the friction. Harry mumbled swears, dirty, ridiculous things he'd deny later, begging, taking, and Ron would remember this, and every time before or after.

They kissed again, Harry bent over awkwardly, their lips missing at first, finding each other, missing again. Harry pulled away then, shifting his weight and grabbing onto the headboard, wood rattling against the wall, bedsprings creaking erratically, and Ron feeling as though every nerve in his body was snapping like a rubber band.

The wave came in.

It took a few moments for the sudden warmth on Ron's belly to register to him, only making sense when Harry was sliding down the length of his body and to the right, curling up automatically into Ron's side.

Silence took over, the comfortable kind made for lovers and friends and sometimes those in between. Ron curled locks of Harry's hair between his fingers, studying the arm draping across his chest, the thigh and hip perfectly aligned to rest bent over his. He kissed the closest thing he could reach - Harry's temple - and closed his eyes.

"'M all hot an’ sticky," Harry finally said, words muffled against Ron's shoulder.

"Me too. Got your load all over me."

Harry snorted and made a wiggling movement meant to be in protest, but really served to settle himself closer to Ron's side.

"Oi, Ron?"

"Mmm."

"You're laying on my arm."

Some things in the world were perfect; Harry and Ron together was just one of those things.


End file.
